ge in tea,
gossip, or claret-cup, and look lazily on at the polo match between the
--th Hussars and Monmouthshire. Both teams are reported very strong,
and opinion is pretty equally divided as to which way the match will go.

Mrs. Wriothesley is, of course, there. That lady is a pretty constant
_habituee_, and with Sylla to chaperon is not likely to miss it on this
occasion. She has joined forces already with Lady Mary: as she said,
they have all a common interest in the event of the day, for was not
Captain Bloxam the life and soul of the Hussar side, and were they not
all there ready to sympathize or applaud? Applause at Hurlingham, by
the way, being in as little accord with the traditions of the place as
it is in the stalls of a fashionable theatre. The match has not yet
begun. Two or three wiry ponies, with carefully-bandaged forelegs, are
being led up and down on the opposite side of the paddock. The centre
is still unoccupied, save for a few late-comers walking quietly across,
none of the competitors having so far put in an appearance.

"Just the sort of thing to interest you, this, Miss Sylla," exclaimed
Pansey Cottrell, after lifting his hat in a comprehensive manner to the
whole party. "I know you are passionately fond of horses and have a
taste for riding."

"Now, what does he mean by that?" thought Sylla. There was nothing
much in the remark, but she was getting a little afraid of this
mischievous elderly gentleman. She was beginning to look for a hidden
meaning in his speeches. Could this be a covert allusion to her mishap
at Todborough? Had the story of her fall come to his ears, and was he
about to indulge his love of teasing people at her expense? "I don't
know," she replied, guardedly, "that I am so very passionately fond of
horses; but I have no doubt I shall enjoy this very much. Knowing one
of the players will of course make it interesting."

"Quite so," replied Cottrell. "It is a pity Mr. Beauchamp is not
playing. If he were, I should consult you as to which side to back.
You judge his capabilities in all ways so accurately."

Neither Lady Mary nor Mrs. Wriothesley could help noticing this speech.
It was just one of those wicked little remarks to which Pansey Cottrell
treated his friends when they were wanting in deference to his comments
on things generally.

"Sylla has known him all her life," interposed Mrs. Wriothesley; "but
because she happened to know that Lionel could run